


Stars

by Lord_of_the_Snakes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 16:52:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15667311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_of_the_Snakes/pseuds/Lord_of_the_Snakes
Summary: And the spectre of Lord Voldemort contemplates and shatters.





	Stars

As a child, Lord Voldemort would look to the stars, praying to the glowing heavens so far above. He would kneel before the ever distant supernovae, to the glittering, glorious constellations that lay above, with words to unseen Gods slipping from his lips. He prayed for an answer, a reason for his abandonment, that never came. With time, he came to see that stars, while infinitesimal, would long outlive him. They might be infinitesimal, but he was more so. He came to see that stars would fade, as all things did with time. 

As a boy on the cusp of manhood, the stars were his only company, the only thing he could confide in. Psalms slipped off of his lying tongue in the dead of night. In the stars’ light, he recited scriptures from Bibles, scriptures from a god he no longer believed in left his lips. He beguiled and enticed the masses, saccharine flattery and feigned modesty adding to the charisma that had once poured from his pores. He let his psalms wash away with his father's blood. The stars' company was left behind, just as that young man had been. Just as his life had been. 

The life and times of Tom Marvolo Riddle were memories not forgotten, but abandoned and hidden, the only witness of his lost life, the silent stars. 

Now, as a formless, spectral entity, he prays for oblivion, he prays for mercy. He haunts the deep forests of Albania. He writhes within the chains of existence, desperate to leave behind the unwavering, unending waves of pain. He exists, unable to hear the fearful whispers of what he was. His name an unknowable, unwanted burden. A heavy weight no man wished no bear. He exists, unable to hear the reverent tales told to the young and hopeful aristocrats. As a specter, with his sanity eroding, he prays for an oblivion that never came.  
Time, unsparing and unyielding, marches on. 

Lord Voldemort exists within the bodies of rodents and serpents, robbing them of both time and life. “A murderer with bloodless hands” was an applicable statement, as he did not have hands, not anymore. Time marches on, without regret, without compassion. Lord Voldemort loses himself, his identity and name, lost to the void. Lord Voldemort exists in a sea of trees, his sanity fraying. There is no escape from the pointlessness of this existence. There is no escape from the emptiness. Lord Voldemort's mind muddles further as time, cruel and unending, marches forth on the road to nothing. 

When a young man, stuttering and determined, came to him in the depths the forest, he knew he was to reclaim himself at last. Lord Voldemort would rise again. He looks to the stars, and remembers years longs past. He remembers his vanquishing, the death of both him and his empire. He would rebuild from the ashes, he would rebuild and remake his army. He would not burn away again, he would remain for eons. He would remain as a timeless, eternal immortal. He would not fizzle out. As so many mortal men had, he would blaze brightly for eons to come. Stars would fade, but he would keep shining.


End file.
